


Accepting Defeat

by purdledooturt



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Anime)
Genre: Gen, Rated T for Teen because I used 'the f word'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-03
Updated: 2016-09-03
Packaged: 2018-08-12 18:20:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7944535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purdledooturt/pseuds/purdledooturt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gary works too much, but he still has limits. A short drabble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Accepting Defeat

**Author's Note:**

> This is pointless, but it was good to warm up with. Inspired by fun's 'Some Nights'. It was going to be longer, but I thought I'd save the angst for my other story.
> 
> Forever ago, when I was still in university, I accidentally dropped my pen into my coffee. I was past redemption then. I knew it was bedtime.

He let out a groan, clutching his hair in between his clenched fingers. He gave it an experimental tug in a futile attempt to wake himself. It was late and he had just accidentally dipped his pen into his coffee, intending to stir it. Fishing out his writing utensil, he grimaced at the mug of caffeine he held in his hands. It was warm – of course it was, he had just made it – and it tempted him. With a defeated sigh, he downed the drink in one go, potential poisoning be damn. It tasted no different, thankfully. But it did little. He was still as sleepy as he was before he had the coffee. 

Maybe he was up too late, and it was time for the body to give in. He shook his head, though he wasn’t sure why. Was it an attempt to shake the thoughts of sleep away? Or was it to try and wake himself? Pondering for a second, he muttered, “there’s no fucking difference,” to the empty room, the sound of his own hushed voice barely rising to meet his ears. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair again ( _once more_ , he could almost hear his old drama teacher order, _with feeling_ ). Frustration was mounting, but it was quickly plateauing. He was getting apathetic. He no longer had energy to maintain emotion.

Maybe it was best for Gary to go to sleep.

He glared down at his pen, which he had just unceremoniously dumped on a pile of papers in his panic. It soaked the papers in coffee, but he couldn’t even begin to care. There wasn’t anything substantial in those papers anyway – he hadn’t really written anything of great importance. Seven hours of nothing. With another great grumble, he shoved his chair into the table. He dragged his feet along. It was taking a lot of effort to push himself to keep moving. Electing to leave his mug, his pen/stirrer, and his lab coat behind, he trudged down the long, dark hallways towards the general direction of his room. The house was too damn _big._ And too damn _empty._  

He yanked a door open and slipped into his room. Light was creeping in from the windows – morning was coming. But Gary didn’t care. With another grumble, he dived onto the covers, flopping into a comfortable position. His slippers slipped off his feet, landing on the mildly-scuffed wood floors with soft thuds. Before the sun had time to fully rise in the sky, Gary Oak was asleep.


End file.
